I am the finest sheer tissue paper. I feel almost like fabric. I'm that soft.
First snowflakes. White blossoms falling from spring trees. I'll brown and crumple if you walk on me. Don't do that.
I'm old cream bone china. The kind you can hold up to the light and see through. You know better than to put me in the dishwasher. Be careful, or leave me on the counter.
I'm a perfect summer apricot. I'll bruise as soon as I'm ripe.
I'm fair skin on a summer day. This one is not a metaphor. I'm really that. All the time.
While I'm like this, I'll jump at every noise. I'll want a buffer, but won't be able to find one. I'll scratch easily. I'll cry when I usually don't.
I'll walk like I'm carrying eggshells. I'll want to look at you through vellum, rather than full on. Even lilacs will smell too sharp.
I'm a soft gray smoke tendril. I could blow away, but the wind is calm, so I hover instead.
Thank god I'm not brittle.
Today, I know why I'm like this. There have been many times when I don't. I'll be this way for a few hours, maybe a day.
I'll look less like a filmy line drawing tomorrow. The watercolor pastels will come back first, along with the pink in my cheeks. Then the bold primaries. That spectrum will lift me up.
I'll be solid and from good stock. I'll have backbone. Hearty and salt of the earth. Rain will bead up and roll off. I'll step lively without having to be brave.
It will be hard to remember the thin sweater, the threadbare cloth, the baby's breath. That's why I'm writing it down.
For today you'll whisper. Brew some weak tea. I've told you what it's like being me. It's temporary but for now it's all I know.
You'll know when I'm ready. I'll remind you of dark chocolate. I'm scrappy and taxi cab yellow. I might even be wearing a jean jacket.
You can laugh loud, then and say what you want. I'm not made of glass. I might even hold you up.